Murder by Numbers

By Eric Brown

And then there was one . . . can Donald Langham and Maria Dupré stop a killer who's picking off victims one by one?

December, 1956. Donald Langham's wife Maria Dupré receives a chilling invitation to attend a death at the home of Maxwell Falwell Fenton in Essex. The once-prominent artist has a number of enemies, and has faded into obscurity since the war ended. Is the invitation to his own death or someone else's? Arriving at Winterfield on a cold winter evening, Donald and Maria meet five strangers who have also received numbered invitations. They all had a reason to hate or fear Maxwell, including Maria, who reveals a secret from her own past. But is she telling the whole truth? The soiree produces a gruesome and dramatic twist, but it's about to get much worse when someone starts picking off the six, one by one. Can Donald untangle lies, betrayal, and incredible revelations to identify the killer before Maria becomes the next victim?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781448304332

Eric Brown

Twice winner of the British Science Fiction Award, Eric Brown is the author of more than twenty SF novels and several short story collections. His debut crime novel, Murder by the Book, was published in 2013. Born in Haworth, West Yorkshire, he now lives in Scotland.

Book preview

ONE

The grey December afternoon found Langham at his desk in the Ryland and Langham Detective Agency, eating a cold pork pie and reading the manuscript of his latest novel. In the outer office, beyond the communicating door, Pamela was tapping away on the upright Remington.

Between crossing out purple passages in the manuscript, he contemplated living in the country after spending the past ten years in London. He and Maria had booked a second viewing of the property they hoped to buy in Suffolk, though he knew it was just a formality. Maria had fallen in love with Yew Tree Cottage at first sight.

The rattle of the typewriter ceased, followed by a tentative tapping at the door. Pamela poked her head through. ‘Another cuppa, Donald?’

He gulped down the last of his pie. ‘You’ve read my mind.’

She took his empty mug and withdrew to put the kettle on.

Life in the country after London … He was tired of the city, the constant noise, the increasing traffic and insufferable smog. The village of Ingoldby-over-Water boasted a decent pub and a cricket team, and was only an hour and a half’s drive from the city. In his enthusiasm, he’d even promised Maria that he’d consider getting a dog.

His reverie was interrupted by Pamela’s return. She placed his mug on the desk and hesitated, biting her lip as she regarded him.

‘I wonder if I might have a word, Donald?’

‘Fire away.’

She hesitated again, frowning. She was a tall, slim girl in her early twenties, whose piled blonde hair, coral-pink cashmere cardigan and pearls gave her an appearance of sophistication belied by her Cockney accent – which she could switch on and off to order. Her phone manner suggested a Mayfair debutante.

‘I was wondering,’ she said at last, and winced as if anticipating a rebuff, ‘if you and Ralph might consider promoting me?’

Langham picked up his mug and stared at her. ‘Promoting?’

‘Well, you see … I know I deal with clients, and write up the reports, but I have quite a bit of free time. I just thought it might be better spent helping you.’

‘Helping in what way?’

She lodged herself side-saddle on the edge of the desk, twining a strand of hair around her forefinger. ‘You see, it was while I was typing up one of Ralph’s reports – the one about the vicar’s stolen parrot – and I thought, I could do this. Investigate the case, I mean – not steal his parrot. I could talk to the vicar, his neighbours. It didn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to work out what had happened to the bird, did it?’

Langham smiled. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘So, you see, if I handled the smaller cases, did some of the interviewing and what-not, that’d leave you and Ralph free to concentrate on the more important jobs, wouldn’t it?’

‘I suppose it would, yes; you have a point there.’

‘I wouldn’t be asking for any more money. I’m happy with what I’m getting at the moment. It’s just that … well, sometimes I get a bit bored, and I’d like to be out there, helping you.’

She slipped from the desk and smiled at him. ‘It was just a thought,’ she added tentatively.

‘I’ll run it past Ralph when he gets back, OK?’

She beamed. ‘Thanks a bunch.’ She returned to the outer office, closing the door behind her.

Langham sat back and sipped his tea.

Pamela certainly had initiative. She sometimes sat in on their discussions, occasionally making valuable contributions. But the fact was that there was only just enough work, in the quiet period leading up to Christmas, for him and Ralph. Maybe after the New Year, when things began to pick up again, they could think about putting some of the interviews and minor cases her way.

The phone shrilled in the outer office and Pamela answered in her poshest voice. The intercom on his desk flashed and he flipped a switch. Pamela said, ‘Donald, it’s Maria. I’ll put her through.’

Langham picked up the phone, wondering why Maria was ringing from work.

‘Darling?’

‘Donald. Would it be OK if I popped round to see you?’

‘Now?’ He was surprised. His immediate thought was that the estate agent had contacted her to say that someone else had put an offer in for Yew Tree Cottage. ‘Is it—?’

Maria anticipated the question. ‘The cottage? No. I’ll tell you when I see you. Love you, Donald.’

She cut the connection and Langham was left staring at the Bakelite receiver, wondering at her worried tone. He resumed reading his manuscript.

Fifteen minutes later the outer door opened and he climbed to his feet, expecting Maria. Instead he heard Ralph’s chirpy tones as he asked Pamela to put the kettle on, then his partner breezed into the office, tossing his trilby at the hatstand in the corner and, as usual, missing.

‘How goes it with Major Bruce’s stolen diamonds?’ Langham asked.

‘Piece of cake,’ Ralph said, retrieving his hat from the parquet and hanging it on the stand.

‘Solved it?’

‘Almost. It was the valet – stands to reason. Only bod with the opportunity. I’ll stake out his gaff at Barking tonight. I reckon either he’ll leave with the sparklers and meet with a fence, or he’ll have someone come to his place for a gander. Bob’s your uncle. Anything doing here?’

‘Quiet as a tomb,’ Langham said. ‘Oh’ – he thumbed towards the outer office – ‘Pamela’s asked for promotion.’

Ralph’s weasel face exhibited pantomime surprise, and Langham recounted their secretary’s case for active duty.

He fell silent as Pamela entered the room with Ralph’s mug of hot, sweet, milky tea. When she departed, Ralph said, ‘I suppose she could do a bit of legwork – maybe after Christmas. Routine stuff, nothing too complex. I mean, she’s a young slip of a thing.’ He slurped his tea. ‘I’ll tell her we’ll think about it in the New Year.’

Maria arrived five minutes later and Langham could tell, from her brief peck on his cheek, that she was more than a little worried.

‘Ralph,’ she said, pulling off her thick sheepskin gloves, ‘you look freezing cold.’

He was warming his hands before the two-bar electric fire. ‘You bet. Perishing out there.’

‘Your trouble,’ she said, ‘is that you don’t dress for the winter.’

Langham smiled to himself. Ralph wore a thin polyester suit, summer and winter, and continually whined about the cold.

‘I’m a poor gumshoe,’ he replied, ‘and I can’t afford an overcoat. I should be a literary agent, like you.’

She smiled at Langham. ‘Maybe we should buy Ralph a thick winter coat for Christmas, oui?’

‘Rather have a warming bottle of Scotch,’ Ralph muttered. ‘Anyway, I’ll make myself scarce. No doubt you two want to natter in private.’

Maria said, ‘No, please stay, Ralph. I’m here on business.’

Ralph flashed Langham a look, then pulled two straight-backed chairs up to the desk.

Maria sat down, opened her handbag – which Langham always thought defied the laws of physics as it appeared tiny yet contained all manner of irrelevant paraphernalia – and pulled out a small white envelope.

‘I received this by second post today, addressed to me at Charles’s office.’

She passed it to Langham. He opened the envelope and withdrew a white card edged in black.

Maria said, ‘Go on, read it.’

He read the brief message out loud. ‘Maria Dupré, you are invited to attend a death at six p.m. on the third of December. Maxwell Falwell Fenton, Winterfield, Lower Malton, Essex.’

He passed the card to Ralph, then examined the envelope. The address of the Charles Elder Literary Agency was typed, and the Marylebone postmark was dated the day before.

‘Maxwell Falwell Fenton,’ Langham said. ‘The artist? Do you know him?’

Maria bit her lower lip. ‘I did, seventeen or eighteen years ago. He was a regular at my father’s soirées at the French embassy before the war. Fenton was a big name then.’

‘I’ll say,’ Ralph put in. ‘I’ve heard of him, so he must’ve been.’

‘This was before he served as a war artist in Europe,’ Maria said. ‘Even before that he was always a little unbalanced, but I’d heard rumours that the war pushed him over the edge. When he returned to England, he became reclusive and stopped painting. I hadn’t heard anything about him for many years, and to be honest I assumed he was dead.’

Langham indicated the card that Ralph was still holding. ‘Apparently not,’ he said.

Ralph tapped the card. ‘The third, Don. That’s today.’

Langham took it and read the brief typed message again. He saw something he’d missed earlier. On the top right-hand corner, outside the black-lined border, was a tiny handwritten numeral: 6.

He showed this to Ralph, then to Maria, who said, ‘Maybe he numbered the people he was inviting? But what should we do about this?’ she went on. ‘Call the police?’

Ralph frowned. ‘They’d send us away with a flea in our ear. It’s not exactly a crime to send out cards like this.’

‘But we cannot just …’ she began.

Langham regarded his wife. ‘What do you suggest?’

She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. ‘I don’t know … I was wondering – perhaps we should go down there, see what all this might be about?’

He read the card again. ‘You are invited to attend a death …’ He shook his head. ‘Bizarre, to say the least. In your opinion, Maria, is this Fenton chap someone who’d be likely to kill himself?’

She shrugged. ‘I really cannot say. He was always unpredictable, highly strung. I thought him a little mad. So I suppose …’ She made a pretty moue with her lips and looked worried. ‘What do you think we should do?’

He bit his lip, considering. ‘I don’t like the sound of it,’ he said. ‘If he is unbalanced, then who knows what he might be planning?’

Maria hesitated, looking down at her hands. ‘I … I think he is planning to kill himself.’

‘So you think we should go down and try to prevent him?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t like it one bit. I think we’d be better off just informing the police.’

She looked up, her expression suddenly defiant. ‘Then, if you will not accompany me, Donald, I shall take the car and drive down there myself.’

Langham looked from Maria to Ralph, who took the hint and snatched up his mug. ‘Think I’ll make myself another cuppa,’ he said.

When the communicating door had closed, Langham leaned forward and said, ‘Maria … there’s something you’re not telling me.’

She swallowed and looked down at the gloves she was fiddling with on her lap, her mouth half open as if about to say something.

He asked, dreading the answer, ‘I know you said, back there, that you didn’t know him well. But you were more than just casual acquaintances, weren’t you?’

She winced. ‘You must remember, Donald, that I was young. Just eighteen. Fenton was a famous artist … and charismatic.’

He nodded, swallowed and asked, ‘What happened?’

It was a second before she replied. ‘I met him at one of my father’s parties, as I said. I was flattered by his attention. I’d just left school in Gloucestershire, and I think I was dazzled by the social life I found in London. And then a feted artist started paying me compliments.’

He hesitated, then said, ‘Did you reciprocate?’

‘I …’ She paused, twisting her gloves. ‘I was – what is the phrase? – starstruck, I think. I met him on three or four occasions at the embassy, and then he asked me to accompany him to an expensive restaurant. I was not sure that my father would approve – Fenton was in his forties at the time – so I didn’t tell him and slipped away one evening.’

‘And?’

‘Fenton was charming. Of course, I’d heard rumours about him, about how he treated women. But all I could say was that, on that occasion, he treated me like a princess.’

‘On that occasion?’

‘At the end of the evening, he praised my beauty – speaking from the perspective of an artist, of course, he said. Then he asked me if I would care to sit for him. He had a studio in London, as well as one down at Winterfield.’

‘He lived in the sticks back then?’

‘Winterfield is his ancestral home,’ Maria said. ‘It’s been in the family for something like three hundred years.’

‘You agreed, of course – to sit for him?’

‘I was young and impressionable. And flattered. There I was, fresh from school, and this handsome, world-renowned artist said I was beautiful and asked me to sit for him. Of course I agreed.’

‘What happened?’

‘I sat for him. He painted me.’

‘In London?’

‘To begin with, yes. I sat for two or three sessions at his Chelsea studio, but he professed himself dissatisfied with something – I can’t recall … the light or the setting or whatever. So he invited me down to Winterfield. He said that if he could paint me over the course of a weekend, he was sure the portrait would be a masterpiece. There was only one problem.’

‘Your father?’

‘There was no way my father would have agreed – so I lied. I arranged for a schoolfriend to invite me to her house, then packed a bag and took the train to Chelmsford.’

‘You didn’t wonder if Fenton had ulterior motives?’

Maria thought about that. ‘Donald, it was so long ago. I really was a child, and naive. I knew nothing. Perhaps, to be honest, a little part of me was hoping that what he saw in me was not only a subject fit for a painting, but something more. You do understand, don’t you, Donald? I was young and ridiculously romantic.’

He swallowed. ‘Of course I understand,’ he said. ‘So … he painted you?’

‘He painted me all that first day, a Saturday. And then he had his cook prepare a wonderful meal. I never usually drank, especially wine, but that night …’

‘My God,’ he said, fearing where this might be leading.

‘I was a little tipsy at the end of the evening, but not so much that I didn’t forget to lock the door of my room. I was naive, but not foolish. Anyway, on the Sunday he continued with the painting, and said that one more session, the following weekend, would see it completed.’

‘And you went down again?’

‘Not the following weekend – I had planned something with my father. But the weekend after that, yes.’

‘How did it go?’

She shrugged, and he saw that she was clutching her gloves again. ‘He finished the painting, and it made me look incredible. I was astounded. I wondered if this was how I really appeared, or whether it was just as he saw me.’

‘Go on.’

It was a while before she could bring herself to continue. ‘It was Sunday evening, and he’d plied me with drink. He said he’d like to do another painting, only this time, he said, it would be a nude.’

‘Christ,’ Langham said. ‘And?’

‘I was horrified. It was so sudden, so out of the blue. I liked him. I suppose I was attracted to him in a silly, schoolgirlish way, but the thought of doing that … So I refused.’

‘And he accepted that?’

‘No. No, he didn’t. He was enraged. He turned very ugly, Donald. He was very drunk by this time, and he cursed me.’ She screwed her eyes shut, then forced herself to go on. ‘And the things he said …’ She shook her head. ‘He called me terrible things – things I cannot repeat. And then he said that I was a little fool if I thought that all he wanted was to paint me. I was terribly hurt and confused. I was in out of my depth. And then … then he forced himself on me.’

‘The bastard—’

‘Or, rather, he tried to.’

Langham found that his mouth was dry. ‘What happened?’

‘I fought him off. He was very drunk, and although he was a big man, I was young and more athletic. He scared me to death when he grabbed me, and I fought like a cat, scratched him, tried to gouge out his eyes. I was enraged, Donald.’

‘Good for you!’

‘And then I lurched towards the fireplace, grabbed the only thing to hand and swung it at him. The poker struck the side of his head and he went down like a clichéd sack of cement in a bad thriller. I thought I’d killed him. I felt for his pulse, found that he was still alive, then gathered my belongings and left. I managed to catch the last train up to London and stayed at my friend’s house.’

‘And that was the last time you set eyes on Maxwell Fenton?’

She shook her head. ‘No, Donald. Imagine my horror when he showed up at one of my father’s soirées a month later. I tried to avoid him, but he cornered me.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He fingered the scar on his temple, smiled like the devil and said that he hoped it wouldn’t fade as he wanted to have it as a reminder of my tempestuousness. And then he had the temerity to ask me to sit for him again.’

‘And you said?’

‘I told him to go to hell.’

‘Attagirl!’

‘And that was the very last time I saw him,’ she said.

They sat in silence for a while, before Maria looked up at him and smiled. ‘So you see, Donald, I want to go down and see if Maxwell Fenton really does intend to kill himself – and, to be honest, I suppose a small part of me hopes he does.’

‘Well, if you think you’re going there on your own, my girl …’

She smiled. ‘So you’ll come with me?’

Langham sighed. ‘Of course, but I’m taking my revolver. Just to be on the safe side.’

He glanced at his watch. It was almost four o’clock. ‘If we set off now, we’ll be at Lower Malton well before six.’

Maria looked relieved. ‘Oh, thank you, Donald. You don’t know how much this means to me.’

‘You owe me one, my dear.’

They moved to the outer office, and Langham told Ralph they were heading up to Essex.

‘It’s a fair way,’ Ralph said. ‘You OK for petrol?’

‘Managed to fill up last night at my local station,’ Langham said.

Ralph nodded. ‘I know a chap down Chiswick way who’ll see us right in an emergency,’ he said, no doubt referring to one of the many black marketeers he’d got to know just after the war. ‘No ruddy Arab’s going to stop me driving.’

‘Don’t curse the Arabs,’ Langham said. ‘It’s your shower, the Tory fools governing the country, who made a mess of Suez. Right,’ he said to Maria, ‘let’s be making tracks.’

She donned her overcoat, headscarf and gloves, and they descended the stairs to the busy, rain-lashed street.

TWO

They drove north-east through the dreary suburban sprawl of the city, chatting about the cottage and Maria’s plans to buy new furnishings and curtains. She appeared animated, but it was a superficial enthusiasm belying the fact that her thoughts were elsewhere.

Already the winter twilight was closing in, abetted by rain clouds. The downpour persisted, making the procession of houses, shops and factories seem all the more bleak. Shop fronts were lighted against the gathering darkness, and pedestrians bent into the wind as they hurried homeward. Langham noticed queues of cars at every petrol station they passed.

It was a relief when they left London in their wake and motored through open country. These days he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders when London with its heaving population was finally behind him. He wondered if it was the imminent prospect of moving from the city that had brought about his sudden antipathy to the capital.

Maria said something, and Langham glanced at her. ‘I’m sorry, what was that? Miles away.’

‘I said, when all this is over, Donald, I think we should have another little break at the Grange.’ A month before they’d spent a weekend at the comfortable old hotel near the village of Abbotsford in west Suffolk.

‘When all this is over,’ he said, glancing at her. ‘Yes, let’s do that.’

They drove on in silence for a while.

‘So you really think Fenton intends to kill himself?’ he said a little later.

Maria stared into the darkness, grimacing. ‘Perhaps the rumours are correct, Donald, and he has gone mad.’

‘It certainly sounds deranged to send out invitations to a death.’

‘In a way, it is entirely in keeping with his egocentric character. He was always the showman who liked to be the centre of attention. He had talent, yes, undeniably, but it seemed that this was not enough for him. He wanted people to admire him for his eccentricities as well as for his art.’ She shrugged. ‘He once said to me that his artistic talent came naturally, and that he despised those who lauded it. Do you know what I think?’ she added, turning to him.

‘Go on.’

‘I think he loathed himself. He despised the facility of his talent, and therefore mistrusted those taken in by it. He wanted to be loved for who he was, but people could not love him because he was so terribly flawed and narcissistic.’

‘You’d make a good psychiatrist.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll have to watch myself.’

‘You have nothing to worry about, Donald. You are at heart a simple, uncomplicated soul, and perhaps that is why I love you so.’

They drove

Reviews for Murder by Numbers

[vesper1931 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

1956. Maria Dupre has been invited, among others, to attend the death of dying Maxwell Falwell Fenton at 6.00 pm on the 3rd December at his home, Winterfield, in Lower Malton. On time he shoots himself in front of the witnesses after stating that they will all get their just punishment. The next day the first death occurs but by whom. Inspector Mallory investigates with the help of Langham and Ryland.
A well-written and entertaining mystery with a cast of likeable characters. Another good addition to the series which can be read as a standalone story.
An ARC was provided by the publisher via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

[brianewilliams · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is the seventh in the Langham and Dupre series of light mysteries. In it Maria Dupre receives an invitation "to a death" from a renowned artist she knew when she was a teenager. She asks her husband Donald Langham to attend it with her. Donald is an author and a partner in a private detective agency. When they arrive at the artist's delipidated country house, there are several other invited guests: a doctor, an art critic and her husband, a young poet and a show girl. The event is bizarre from the beginning but takes a macabre turn when the artist shoots himself in front of his guests.It's a well-crafted "closed circle" mystery set in the English countryside after WW2. The story is set against the background of the then prevailing austerity with such hardships as gasoline rationing. There is a strong supporting cast of characters from previous books in the series as well as the other guests at the country house. The mystery comes to an exciting conclusion as the puzzled is solved. While not the strongest book of the series, it merits a read and is recommended. I received a complementary advance reading copy of the eBook of "Murder by Numbers" from Severn House via Netgalley for my independent review. The comments about it are my own.